A Rose By Any Other Name
by potterlockedintheshire
Summary: "When Finn asks him one Friday morning if he wants to play COD and Puck tells him that he'll be busy cleaning pools, the last thing he expects is for Finn to punch his shoulder jokingly and say 'Dude, even a w**** can take a day off.'" Summary edited to conform with content guidelines .


**A Rose By Any Other Name**

**Warning: **Heavy themes of prostitution and some language. (My first time writing either of these things, but I wanted to try this, so please let me know how I can improve upon them.)  
**Disclaimer: **Glee is not mine, unfortunately.

Thank you to the amazing Emma (SimpleTune) for her suggestions with this fic.

He tries not to think about it, the things he does with his body and why. It's pool cleaning, his job; always has been. And so maybe some of the women he works for are a little lonely, so much so that they whisper words meant for husbands when they ask him inside, and he wonders why they speak so softly when their words are less than subtle.

And, okay, so maybe they pay him a little better when they're still breathing heavily from the bedroom, untangling themselves from sweat-slicked sheets and slipping him dollar bills in the dim lighting. Bur it helps him out, and besides, they're paying him for cleaning their pools, that's all.

So when Finn asks him one Friday morning if he wants to play COD tomorrow and Puck tells him that he'll be busy cleaning pools, the last thing he expects is for Finn to punch his shoulder jokingly and say "Dude, even a whore can take a day off, right?"

He almost stops walking, almost turns and shoves Finn into the locker nearest to them before remembering that they're in a crowded, moving hallway on the way to first period, and besides, they're supposed to be friends again; Finn was supposed to have forgiven him for Beth over a year ago.

So Puck keeps moving, just looking at Finn sideways before making it to the door of their English room and taking his seat in the back. He never pays attention during English class anyways, (he already speaks the damn language), but today his mind is a cavern with one word echoing inside that makes it even harder to listen than normal. So he numbs it, stores it in the back of his mind along with the lesson on the imperfect tense, because if there's one thing he's the master of, it's the art of pretending.

It's harder to pretend, though, when the bell rings and Finn walks over to his desk as Puck stuffs his empty notebook back into his bag. And he's just being a good friend, Puck supposes, but sometimes he wishes Finn would leave him the hell alone because it's Finn's voice that he keeps hearing, and every "Rachel" and "football" and "Glee club" sound like _whore, whore, whore. _So his nods are empty, his replies monotonous and unfeeling, a chorus of "yeah, sure, right," in time to the beat of the word he doesn't want to hear.

Puck knows what he is, knows what he does and what it's called, but that doesn't mean he has to think about it _that _way. Because it's- he doesn't know what it is, exactly; he's not ashamed to admit that he sleeps with older women; hell, he even brags about it sometimes, but it's always "pool cleaning," always "helping out some older women," not anything else. And he doesn't even know why he cares so much either; he just knows that he really hates that word.

So when he walks into the Glee room after school, Puck stops for a minute and then walks past Finn to the back of the room. Finn looks a bit puzzled, but really, when isn't he? So Puck stays there, slumped in his seat, and this time it's the beat of the drum that carries that word with each hit. He nods at Finn when he leaves the classroom after.

But really, he thinks on the drive home, what right does Finn have, does anyone have, to call him that? He can do whatever the hell he wants with himself; it's no one's damn business but his own.

Yeah, he figures, definitely his own business. So he can call what he does whatever he wants to, and it's pool cleaning. Just pool cleaning, and maybe something a little extra. He's not anything except a stud, and it's not his fault if chicks like him. Puck pushes on the accelerator a little harder, watching the small needle on the dashboard edge past sixty, sixty-three, and stops looking as it hits sixty-seven. He knows he's reckless. He doesn't care.

And it's not until the next afternoon, pulling his truck into the driveway of the woman who slipped him her address and a date on it last week, that he starts to think about it again, but he pushes the thought as far away as possible, drowns it in the pool because now's _not _the time to remember. She walks out of the house almost as soon as he knocks, sunlight hitting the artificial blond highlights in her otherwise brown hair. She grins at him and shakes his hand, giving him a name that will soon be interchangeable with another. He just has to make sure he remembers it for when—When he does what he does.

She walks to a pool chair, reclining. Puck begins to work methodically, glancing up periodically to see her eyes still on him. He keeps going, though, only pausing long enough to give her the little half-smile he knows the cougars always seem to like before returning to his work. He's not an idiot; he can tell by the tightness of her shirt, the sway of her hips each time she gets up to "go inside for a minute," what she wants him for. And, okay, that's cool, he'll just let her do that thing afterwards where she acts all grateful and whatever and end up in her bedroom.

And like he figured, it's less than an hour before they're on the bed, sheets awry. He's breathing heavily, and so is she; he can feel her bare chest heaving beneath him, but from the way she quickly pushes her hips up to meet his and then drops them again, she doesn't seem to be worn out at all. And it's nothing he hasn't done over and over before, so much so that the snapping motions are nothing more than routine. Only in the dark of the room, it's easy to hear it in time with the thrusting of his hips, _whore, whore, whore, _and no increase in speed, no attempt to shut himself off in this primal state can work, and he feels it, feels the word with every sound from her lips, can hear everything that Finn didn't say. Everything about how he's cheap, how he's such a damn prostitute, and _your body's worth more than you are _and that's all people ever want him for anyways, isn't it? It's all she wants, the woman underneath him, and he can feel himself shaking now and doesn't know if it's from exertion or arousal or something else entirely.

But they finish, and he doesn't lie there; Puck just gets dressed while she goes to get her purse, leaves with his head pounding.

He shows up at Finn's around six, parking his truck and knocking on the door like he never used to have to. Kurt opens it, dressed in an elegant suit with a patterned blue tie, looking disappointed at who he finds. Still, he lets Puck in, shouting back to Finn, who appears a minute later.

"I thought you were busy," he says, surprised but pleasant. Still, he turns back upstairs, motioning for Puck to follow him as he races towards Call of Duty.

Puck can hear the door opening again as they reach the second floor and then shutting a moment later. "Blaine," Finn says by way of explanation, tossing a controller across the room. Puck catches it, and they situate themselves on the floor.

"Parents home?" Puck asks, because, honestly, he thinks he might leave if they are.

But Finn shakes his head, starting up the system. "Mom's at a cooking convention or something, I dunno. And Burt's at the garage."

Puck just nods, eyes on the screen. He joins Finn in the virtual world, hitting button combinations with rapid sequences that can be achieved only by muscle memory, blowing something else up every half-minute. But he's not there, he thinks, not really. Not as much as he's still back in the bedroom that, in the darkness, looks like all the others.

"You were right," he says suddenly, before he can think about it too long. It startles Finn, who jolts slightly. Puck can't help but find it funny, in a distant way, that amid all the explosions, the sound of his voice would surprise Finn.

"Right?" Finn's still looking at the screen, and Puck nearly just lets it go, lets the game take Finn back until Puck's words might have just come from the speakers on the side of the television. But Finn's voice hasn't left him alone, and he's sure as hell going to return the favor.

He hits the pause button."Right," he repeats, "about what you said yesterday." Finn looks at him blankly, and Puck wants to slap him for making him spell it out. "When I said I didn't think I'd come over today 'cause I had to go clean pools."

Finn's eyes drift upwards, and Puck uses all his patience not to snap at him. God, Finn's a good friend and all, but what's he supposed to do when he goes all stupid like this? Like this isn't hard enough for him without having to look like a bigger idiot? But the mantra isn't going away, and he's _not_ going to let it happen again.

"I still don't get it, man."

Puck stands up, exasperated, dropping his controller onto the carpet. "What you said about being a damn whore! Or do you not remember, because I do." Once he's started, it's like built up water pressure. "What you said about the fact that that's all I do is sleep with women because that's practically my damn job? That I can't even do something besides clean pools because I'm not just cleaning them and I don't even know why the hell I bother to do that when that's not even what they want me for!" He realizes, eventually, that he's yelling, and he wonders if he should care.

Finn gapes a bit, and Puck just stands there, watching the boy who's still on the floor. He's breathing heavily again, and he closes his eyes, partly just to get Finn's startled expression out of sight. Of course, his mind being the alternative, it hardly helps.

"I didn't," Finn begins hesitantly, "I didn't mean…I thought you…"

"You didn't what, Finn? Didn't mean it? 'Cause I already said you were right, okay?" He doesn't know why he's still acting like that, only that it's easier than anything else.

"I thought you knew that's what it was."

And he swears he could slap him, because _of course he knows what it is he does. _That doesn't mean that's what he calls it, how he thinks of himself. Instead, he just stands there, letting the silence fill the space.

When Puck doesn't answer, Finn speaks slowly, tentatively. "Look, man, sorry if you've got a problem with it, 'cause that's not…I didn't want to make you mad or anything."

To anyone else, it would sound insincere, but Puck knows his inarticulate friend better. He just nods, breathing once, twice, until _inhale, exhale_ seems normal again.

Finn reaches over, shutting off the game, and that right there tells Puck more than Finn's contorted apologies. "You, like, need to talk about it?" Finn asks him.

"I just did, idiot."

Finn nods and just watches, not moving as Puck lowers himself back to the ground, this time next to Finn. The screen is black, the air filled with the sound of chests rising and falling in a way that they wouldn't notice if they did anything but sit silently together on the carpet, locking eyes. It's all they need. Anything more wouldn't have been enough.

Puck walks down the stairs, the sound of his shoes on each step a definite beat, a _thump, thump, thump_ that reminds him of nothing.


End file.
